“We’re running late, aren’t we?” the captain said.
“We’ve had a head wind all the way across,” the pilot said.
“Is that so?” the captain said. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Inasmuch as the captain’s tone of voice clearly implied that the head wind was obviously the pilot’s fault, a dereliction of duty that was inconveniencing him and seriously interfering with the war effort, the pilot did not, as he had intended to do, inform him that they would land in about an hour and fifteen minutes.
Instead, he walked aft and leaned over the Army pilot, frowning sympathetically at his sick pallor and sunken eyes. He touched and then shook his shoulder. The man did not stir.
Then he caught the Army pilot’s breath. He chuckled, and felt around the mailbags until he found what he was looking for. It was a quart bottle of Scotch. And it was empty.
The pilot reburied the bottle and then, smiling, made his way forward to the cockpit.
“Charley,” he said, “we may have a small problem at Alameda, unloading our passengers.”
“How’s that?”
“The Army guy? He’s dead drunk. I found an empty quart of Scotch.”
“No shit?”
“We didn’t really have a fuel problem,” the pilot said. “We could have got him to breathe into the tanks. We could make it to Kansas City on alcohol fumes.”
“The brass know?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” the copilot said.
“Yeah,” the pilot said. “I was thinking the same thing.”
An hour and twenty minutes later, the Catalina touched down, none too smoothly, on San Francisco Bay.
“I’m glad we were a little light on fuel,” the copilot said.
“Fuck you, Charley,” the pilot said.
Two boats met the seaplane, a glossy motor launch for the passengers, the other a less ornate workboat to take the mail and tow the aircraft to its mooring.
The BUSHIPS brass, as they obviously thought was befitting their station in life, were sent ashore alone in the motor launch. The pilot told them that since the Army officer was ill, he would take care of him.
When the brass had motored away, he went back to the Army pilot.
He was awake, sitting up on the mailbags with blankets wrapped around his shoulders and wearing an aviator’s leather jacket over his tunic. He was shivering.
Malaria, the pilot decided.
“Where are we?” the Army captain asked.
“Alameda Naval Air Station,” the pilot said. “San Francisco.”
“Well, I guess we have cheated death again,” the Army captain said.
“As soon as we get these mailbags loaded in the boat, we’ll take you ashore.”
“Where’s the brass?”
“They’re gone,” the pilot said.
“Good,” the Army captain said. “I somehow got the feeling they didn’t approve of me.”
“Is there anything I can get you?” the pilot asked.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle around here anywhere, would you?”
“No, but I know where we can get you one once you’re ashore,” the pilot said. “Where are you headed in the States?”
“Washington,” the Army captain said.
“I’ll take you to base ops and arrange for another flight,” the pilot said. “I gather you’ve got a priority?”
“Do I ever,” the captain said.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Why not?”
“How come the pilot’s wings and the cavalry insignia?”
The captain looked coldly at him for a moment.
“Nosy bastard, aren’t you?”
“Curious,” the pilot said with a smile. The Army officer was drunk. People got belligerent when they were drunk.
“The way they’re running this war,” the captain said, “is that when you run out of airplanes, they put you on a horse. And then, when you have to eat the horse, they find something else for you to do.”
“You were in the Philippines?”
The captain nodded.
“Bad?”
“Very bad, Lieutenant, very bad indeed,” the Army captain said.
The pilot gave him his hand and pulled the captain to his feet.
“I’d like to keep the blankets for a while,” he said. “Okay?”
“Sure,” the pilot said.
They loaded the Army captain into the workboat. Then he sat huddled under the blankets while the mailbags were loaded aboard and the plane was towed to its mooring.
After that the workboat delivered them to the amphibious ramp, where a pickup waited.
When they walked into base ops, the Army captain made an effort to straighten up, but he did not remove the blankets from his shoulders. Then he spotted a pay telephone.
“Can I mooch a nickel?” he asked.
“I think they would prefer you report in,” the pilot said.
“Fuck ’em,” the captain said matter-of-factly. “They can wait. I have a call to make.”
“Then why don’t you give me your orders?” the pilot asked as he handed the captain a nickel. “I’ll get the bureaucracy working.”
The captain went into his hip pocket for his orders. As he did so, the pilot saw that he had the old revolver in his waistband.
“Thanks,” the captain said. “The call is important.”
The pilot was handed only one sheet, instead of the stack of mimeograph copies he expected. He gave in to his curiosity as he approached the Continuing Passengers counter, unfolded it, and read:
SECRET
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS
SOUTHWEST PACIFIC OCEAN AREA
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
Office of the Supreme Commander
28 March 1942
SUBJECT: Letter Orders
TO: Captain James M. B. Whittaker 0197644 AAC (Det CAV)
Office of the Supreme Commander, SWPOA1.
Verbal orders of the Supreme Commander re your relief from
105th Explosive Ordnance Disposal Detachment, Philippine
Scouts, in the field, and assigning you to Supreme Headquarters
are confirmed and made a matter of record.
2.
You will proceed (Priority AAAA-1) via first available U.S.
Government, Allied Powers, or civilian air, sea, rail, or motor
transportation from Brisbane, Australia, to Washington, D.C.,
for the purpose of personally delivering to the Commander in
Chief certain documents herewith placed in your custody.
3.
Commanders of U.S. military installations are directed to provide
to you whatever facilities and services are needed for the expeditious
discharge of your mission.
4.
After you have personally delivered the documents now in
your custody to the Commander in Chief, you will report to Headquarters,
U.S. Army, Washington, D.C., for further assignment.
BY ORDER OF GENERAL DOUGLAS MACARTHUR:
Charles A. Willoughby
Charles A. Willoughby
Brig . General, USA
Official:
Sidney L. Huff
Lt. Colonel, GSC
SECRET
“What have we got? Who’s the guy wrapped in the blankets?” the officer on duty behind the counter asked the pilot of the Catalina.
The pilot handed him the well-worn set of orders.
“Jesus Christ!” he said when he had read them.
2
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
APRIL 4, 1942
The City of Birmingham, a Douglas DC-3 of Eastern Air Lines’ Great Silver Fleet, could accommodate twenty-one passengers, two rows of seven seats against the right fuselage wall and a single row against the left.
When Mrs. Roberta Whatley, a brunette with 110 pounds arranged attractively about her f
ive feet four inches, boarded the airplane, only an aisle seat halfway up the cabin was unoccupied. Although Mrs. Whatley was pleased to be on the airplane at all—she had a B-3 priority, which meant she had to wait for her boarding pass until all those with higher priorities had been boarded—she was displeased to see that the adjacent seat was occupied by a man.
She had hoped to be assigned one of the single seats or, failing that, something next to another woman. Mrs. Whatley carried in her purse a just-issued bill of divorcement and was not at all interested in masculine companionship.
But there was nothing to be done. She would sit in the one remaining seat and politely but firmly discourage any attempt by the young man to engage her in conversation.
She slipped into the seat, carefully avoiding looking at the man.
That went well, she thought. He didn’t even glance at me.
Out of the corner of her eye, Roberta saw that the man—he was a young man, and not at all bad-looking—had a briefcase and a folded newspaper in his lap and was working on something like a crossword puzzle. It was some kind of code, she recalled, where you had to guess a famous quotation.
With a little bit of luck, the puzzle will keep him busy for a long time.
The stewardess moved down the aisle making sure everyone had seat belts fastened. The young man ignored her, too. She had to touch his shoulder to get his attention.
With a look of annoyance on his face, he raised his briefcase enough for her to see that his seat belt was fastened. Lowering it, he returned his attention to his puzzle.
He really was sort of good-looking, Roberta decided. Then she realized that he looked familiar somehow. She had a vague suspicion that she had known him—or at least seen him—at Pensacola.
Or maybe Alameda? It will be just my damned bad luck to run into some brother naval officer of Tom’s on the damned airplane.
But then she decided she was wrong. For one thing, now that the war was on, officers were required to wear their uniforms; and for another, the hair on this nice-looking young man was much too long for a Naval officer. Naval officers were careful about things like that.
Still, this young man was of military age and looked somehow military. Or at least athletic.
I wonder why he’s not in uniform?
The plane began to move. The young man’s interest in the puzzle didn’t wane until they had taxied to the beginning of the runway, where the pilots tested the engines, or whatever. The noise was bad, and the airplane shook.
When the pilot did that, the young man beside Roberta Whatley lifted his eyes from his puzzle, cocked his head, and listened carefully. Then he turned his attention back to the puzzle and kept it there, not even looking up when the plane started to move down the runway. It was only when they were up and making a sharp turn—a bank, Tom had called it—that he raised his head to the window and quickly looked out.
He hasn’t looked at me yet. I wonder if something like what happened to me has happened to him, something that made him lose his interest in the opposite sex?
When they were up in the air about as high as they were apparently going to fly, the stewardess came down and offered coffee, tea, or Coca-Cola to the passengers. When she got to them, the young man raised his head from his puzzle long enough to ask for Scotch and water.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” the stewardess said. “There is no cocktail service on this flight.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t make the rules, Sir,” the stewardess said.
“In that case, bring me two glasses of ice water, please,” the young man said.
And in that moment, with his face turned to look up at the stewardess, Roberta Whatley recognized him. He looked at her, too, but with neither interest nor recognition. But now she was sure. He was a Navy officer, a naval aviator like Tom. The last time she had seen him was at Pensacola, and he had been wearing a high-collared white uniform with golden wings pinned to the breast.
She stole another glance at him to be sure. It was him, all right. His name was Richard Canidy, and he was a bachelor with a terrible reputation. If the stories could be believed, he had carried on with half the unmarried women at Pensacola—and some of the married ones. A dangerous man, a real wolf.
The stewardess appeared with a tray. He folded down the little table on the back of the seat in front of him and put the glasses of ice water on it while Roberta did the same thing with her Coca-Cola.
After the stewardess had gone back down the aisle, Richard Canidy took a swallow of his water, then took a silver flask from his pocket and poured whiskey into the glass.
I know it’s him!
Tom had known Canidy’s roommate, Lieutenant (j.g.) Edwin H. Bitter, at Annapolis; and when they’d had Ed Bitter to supper, even they—the men—had been upset at Canidy’s romantic escapades.
As if he sensed her looking at him, he looked at her. “Would you like a little taste?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” Roberta said primly. “I think it’s against the rules.”
“It’s the only way to fly,” Canidy said.
And then he returned to his puzzle.
He looked at me. If I recognized him, he should have recognized me.
“You’re Lieutenant Canidy,” Roberta accused.
He looked at her. He had very dark eyes. They seemed to look right inside her.
“I’m used-to-be Lieutenant Canidy,” he said. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Tom Whatley’s wife,” Roberta blurted.
“Oh,” he said. “And we’ve met?”
“At Pensacola,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”
“You didn’t mean what?”
“I’m not Tom’s wife,” she said. “Not anymore, I mean. We were divorced. Just now. That’s what I was doing in Chicago.”
“Oh,” he said. “In that case, are you sure you won’t have a little nip? Either to celebrate or the reverse?”
He reached for the flask, and she didn’t stop him.
Rule One2 had worked, Dick Canidy decided. When he had seen this one walking out to the airplane, and knew becauseit was the only vacant seat that she would be sitting beside him, he decided he would have a shot at her, if for no other reason than that it would make the Chicago- Cleveland-Washington flight pass more quickly. Now it looked as if he might strike gold. His experience was that divorced women had a hunger to prove to themselves that they were still desirable. It followed that that particular flame would burn especially bright a few days after a divorce.
“Just now divorced, you said?” Canidy asked.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Roberta said.
Bingo!
“You said ‘used-to-be’ Lieutenant?” Roberta asked.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Canidy said.
“Sorry,” she said.
“I’m out of the Navy,” Canidy said. “I got out about a year ago.”
“I didn’t know they were letting officers resign,” she said.
“It was decided I would be of more value as an engineer than as an airplane driver,” he said. “And I wasn’t a very good aviator anyway—and a worse naval officer.”
“You don’t mind not being in the service?”
“They’re shooting at naval aviators these days,” he said. “Haven’t you heard?”
I like that, Roberta Whatley decided. Not only is it exactly opposite from what Tom would say, but it’s honest.
“And you like what you’re doing now?”
“It’s all right,” he said.
“What exactly are you doing?”
“Research, in airfoil design for Boeing,” he said.
“I don’t know what that means,” she said.
“An airfoil is a wing,” he said. “As a wing approaches the speed of sound, strange things happen. We’re trying to find out exactly what and why.”
“You mean you’re a test pilot?”
“The only thing I fly is a slipstick,” Canidy said. “Behind a
desk.”
“Oh,” she said.
“What happened between you and Tom?” Canidy asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I don’t like to talk about it,” she said.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“He wasn’t at Great Lakes three weeks before he started running around,” she said.
“That’s hard to believe,” Canidy said.
“Why is it hard to believe?” Roberta asked.
“Look in the mirror,” Canidy said.
She blushed.
By the time the City of Birmingham landed at Cleveland, Canidy’s silver flask was almost empty. They had a drink waiting for the plane to be refueled, and he was able to refill it at the bar in the airport terminal.
Between Cleveland and Washington, she told him all about how Tom had been a rotten sonofabitch almost from the beginning. And he seemed to understand. He patted her hand comfortingly.
When they got to Washington, he confessed that he didn’t know where he was going to stay, but that he would call her when he found a hotel room someplace. She replied that he didn’t have any idea how hard it was to find a hotel room in Washington these days, and that what he should do was come with her to her apartment and use her phone to call around. Otherwise, he might wind up sleeping on a park bench.
While he was calling around to the hotels, she told him she certainly didn’t want him to get the wrong idea, but she absolutely had to have a shower and get into something comfortable.
She was not surprised when he came into the bathroom and got into the shower with her. The only thing that surprised her was that she didn’t even pretend to be furious. When she thought about it later, she decided it was all the Scotch she’d had on the airplane. Plus the fact that she had left Tom six months before, and she had the usual needs of a human being. Plus, in a flash of real honesty, she admitted that she had found it really exciting when she saw him naked.
3
THE ST. REGIS HOTEL
NEW YORK CITY
APRIL 4, 1942
When the ten gentlemen—the group known as the Disciples—gathered to brief and be briefed by Colonel William Donovan, they found him in pain in bed in his suite at the hotel. He had a glass dark with Scotch in his hand, and there was a Scotch bottle on his bedside table.
The Secret Warriors Page 2
